


Routine

by Baneberry



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fantasizing, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Multi, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baneberry/pseuds/Baneberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flatline exvented, optics lidded. "Well," he said, stepping inside; the door shut and locked, "time to get to work."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Flatline, how I love you. I'm actually more of a fan of his Bayverse incarnation, but both are perfect. As such, I did incorporate some tidbits from Flatline's Bayverse design to his IDW version in this fic. (Secondary arms and a mouth.)
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://captainbaneberry.tumblr.com/post/128747147513/routine-baneberry-the-transformers-idw): because a reblog is always appreciated! （●>ω・）ﾉ

The door opened with a soft _swish_ , light from the hall pouring into the large room. A giant figure stood center, casting a massive shadow. A hand reached over and switched on the lights. The flat lit up: a berth, shelves of books (mostly medical texts) and trinkets, a kitchenette, a desk covered in paperwork, and a skeleton of a Necronomicon Xenomorph hanging from the ceiling by a pile of boxes.

Flatline exvented, optics lidded. "Well," he said, stepping inside; the door shut and locked, "time to get to work."

Flatline crossed his hab-suite to the closet. He reached up, protracting a steel pole built into the wall. It leveled with his chest at standing height. He stretched it out of the closet, to the middle of the room, before locking it into place. Flatline took out a small metal box, picking out two objects, both of different size.

The medic went to his small washracks, pressing one hand against the side of the mirror. He looked at his reflection, exventing again. He reached down, pushing aside his panel. He slid two fingers inside his channel, tensing at first, before slowly relaxing. Flatline closed his optics, engine humming; he started working a nice rhythm, fingers pushing in and out, in and out, occasionally stopping to scissor and widen his actuators.

Flatline grumbled to himself. Too incoherent for him to even know what he was saying, getting lost in the sensations. His head swayed and his knees buckled. Lubricant stained his fingers. He stopped probing, now focusing on expanding himself. Flatline felt a tight cramp form in his tanks before settling again. He exvented for the nth time today, rising and stretching his backstrut, momentarily closing down on his fingers. Flatline released, pushed his fingers in as deep as they could go, and flicked a nearby ceiling node.

Flatline groaned. That would do it. He removed his fingers, wiping them off with a rag. He glared at the rag and his fingers. "Useless, stupid..." he continued grumbling, throwing aside the cloth and heading back into the main room.

Flatline picked up the relatively large ashen gray dildo mount. He placed it on the ground, opening a side panel. Routinely switched a few buttons--the mount locked magnetically into place on the ground. The dildo started to vibrate, pulsing and rippling in size; going from thin to fat and wide every few minutes. It rhythmically bobbed up and down.

Mumbling to himself about one of today's difficult patients, Flatline picked up the pair of stasis cuffs. He hooked one to each wrist. His second panel opened, unit pressurizing; another set of abdominal plates shifted, and Flatline stretched out his smaller, secondary pair of arms each equipped with two claws and a thumb. He rolled their wrists, flexed their fingers, before settling them limply at his sides.

Flatline checked himself again, sliding a finger into his panel. He'd gotten wetter, his thighs evident of such. After making sure everything lined up, Flatline raised both his cuffed hands above the pole on each side. "Execute activation," Flatline grunted, and immediately the cuffs lit up, a ribbon of powerful energy connecting the two.

Flatline tested its strength. He tugged his cuffed hands down on the pole. Satisfied they weren't going to break, he glanced down at the vibrating dildo-mount and slowly drew to his knees. Inventing deeply, Flatline carefully lowered himself onto the dildo--the reaction was immediate. He gasped, cuffed hands squeezing into fists. His second pair wrapped around his unit, stroking it in sluggish pumps.

"Now," Flatline mumbled, adjusting to the dildo pumping inside him. His maskplates slid away, revealing a large mouth of very pointy teeth. "Who's first?"

Starscream, maybe. Then again, Starscream was usually always on the list. Still, he made for excellent fantasy fodder. Especially when he pissed Flatline off. Which was quite often, in fact.

Today would be an angry one. Flatline closed his optics, and immediately he was shoving Starscream against the wall, silencing the screeching winged prick with fingers down his throat. His free hand pried at Starscream's panel before he moved between his legs, sheathing his entire unit in the Seeker's tight channel.

Flatline groaned, riding along with the dildo. He imagined his own hands tightly stroking his unit was Starscream's channel. Starscream was whimpering, choking around the fingers in his mouth, but he wasn't fighting. Instead, he was now clinging to Flatline, raising one leg to hook around his waist.

Each thrust inside this fantasy Starscream was a thrust in Flatline's own hands. Hard, angry, swift. His fingers worked open and closed against his cuffed palms as he imagined them now digging down Starscream's wings, peeling away a fresh coat of paint. Starscream whining and begging for more. As he bucked his hips against Flatline's, Flatline bucked his own in empty air, both riding waves.

Flatline yanked his unit free from Starscream's channel (his hands stopped); he shoved Starscream down onto his knees, forcing his face against his wet channel. Starscream obediently started licking, first at the outer folds before immediately penetrating with his tongue. He went in deep; his tongue echoing the same thrusts and vibrations of the dildo.

Flatline groaned, head falling back. He helped move Starscream's head; one hand squeezed the edge of his unit, and he came to.

Starscream disappeared, quickly replaced by someone entirely new. He'd never introduced Windblade to his fantasies. Not until today, after he watched her calmly but ruthlessly cut Starscream down, demanding he be more respectful to his employees and the patients in the hospital. That quiet power she held over Starscream--Flatline had never really noticed it before. Sure, there was obvious tension between the two, but it seemed this new Seeker held all the cards.

Flatline had done routine physicals on a number of the Camiens. Female or whatever, they shared the same equipment. The surroundings remained the same, and now Flatline was laying Windblade out on his desk, her panel open, her unit pressurized. He wondered if she could accommodate his size, what with her almost petite body.

Not that it really mattered in a fantasy. Flatline took Windblade's hips, held her firmly as he thrust inside. The Cityspeaker gasped, throwing her head back; she instantly reached up, grabbing his shoulders. His hands strained against the pole and cuffs, the second pair furiously working his unit. Her channel felt like any other--warm, slick with lubricant, adjusting to the size.

Windblade moaned. She opened her blue optics, red-painted lips parted. She called out his name just as the dildo expanded, causing him to rise a little on his knees before falling back down. Flatline grunted in reply, pumping ruthlessly inside Windblade with that same intensity she used on shutting Starscream down. All the while she was whimpering and gasping, raising a fist to bite at a knuckle.

As the dildo started expanding inside of Flatline again, the fantasy changed. Suddenly, someone was behind him, holding his hips and forcing him down harder and deeper inside Windblade. The Cityspeaker squealed, legs flying open, and before he knew it, Chromia, the bodyguard, was pushing inside of him, pinning and holding him down against her ward.

Flatline mewled, chewing his bottom lip. He rolled his hips, riding as deep down into the dildo as possible. It was Chromia's unit, now, pushing herself in to the hilt. Flatline couldn't see her face, but he imagined she was sneering. He looked down at Windblade, her face so close to his (his hands tightened around his unit, giving it another harsh tug), and the Cityspeaker smiled.

Flatline pulled himself back to reality, optics widening in a snap. The vibrations settled before kicking in at a newer, faster pace. He was getting closer to overload. He glanced at his cuffed hands then at his throbbing unit.

Who else?

Flame? He worked briefly with the scientist before the war, became something of a friend to him. He appreciated Flame's... unique views on morality and interests in the Cybertronian form. But... No. No, maybe next time. Fixit? Hell no. He tried once, and as brutal and violent as it had been, it was hardly satisfying. Even in his fantasies, that medic was nothing but irritating. The Aerialbots' orgy had been fun, but not today.

So...

Wait. No. Who _else_ but the Autobot CMO himself? Ratchet had been a surprisingly easy mech to work with. He actually knew what the Hell he was doing, and Flatline didn't feel inferior. Ratchet had a number of places in Flatline's fantasies. One where they pushed a patient off a med-slab (for the dramatics; it wasn't _real_ ) and Ratchet held him down, fragging him harder than a freight train. Be it a real one or someone who turned _into_ one. Sometimes it involved Flatline kneeling between the Autobot's legs, running his tongue up the length of Ratchet's hard unit in between suckling the wet folds of his--

No. Wait. A new idea just came to him then.

Flatline swallowed dryly. It had been... a very long time since he used _him_. But, he always got the job done.

It didn't matter if he was a defective now. So was Megatron. Actually, no--Megatron was an _Autobot_ now. But no matter. He still looked good perched on a high and mighty throne. He had one of his older bodies--purple and black, Flatline appreciated that form the most. Such a lovely frame. He hoped he could rebuild that beauty some day.

A tug on his unit reminded him Megatron's chassis wasn't why he was here. Well... so to speak. Either way, now the settings had changed--no longer in his office, Flatline was now seated on Megatron's very large, very thick unit. (It matched perfectly with the currently fully expanded dildo.)

"L-Lord Megatron..." Flatline gasped, bouncing in the former tyrant's lap.

Megatron smirked devilishly. He gently took Flatline by his chin, raising his head. "Such a lovely mouth; a pity you keep it hidden so often," he said. "We'll have to see what you can do with it... next time."

Flatline whimpered. He clung to Megatron, sliding completely off the unit before slamming back down. He repeated this with the dildo, lifting off his knees. His smaller hands stroked his unit faster; it rubbed and ground against Megatron's abdomen, but the Decepticon warlord didn't seem to mind. He held Flatline's hips, helping him along.

"P-Primus Primus," Flatline cried, in both his fantasy and in the empty hab-suite, "nn, _Primus_!"

Megatron grabbed his unit and squeezed it hard. "Overload," he growled against the medic's throat, and Flatline obeyed.

Flatline overloaded with a small cry, rising half-way off the dildo and clenching around it. Transfluid spilled free from his channel, more ejaculated from his unit, puddling on the floor. He yanked down on his cuffs hard enough to nearly dent the pole.

With one final grunt, Flatline went limp. He winced as the dildo continued massaging his wet, fluttering claspers. One of his smaller hands reached down and switched the machine off. His unit depressurized.

Flatline vented sharply. His engine settled to a normal hum again. He looked tiredly up at the cuffs. "Exe... execute... deactivation..." he huffed. The stasis cuffs switched off, the energy ribbon dying. He growled, forcing himself off of the still mount, onto hands and knees. Flatline sat down, taking a minute to sluggishly remove the stasis cuffs.

Flatline glared at the mess he made on the floor. He looked at the dangling skeleton across the room. "Why didn't you tell me to lay out a tarp?" he scowled, maskplate snapping shut.

Flatline went to cleaning the floor. He sanitized his toys before putting them back in the closet. Retracted the pole. He took a quick shower, cleaning himself sufficiently. Sat and quietly drank a whole cube of mid-grade at his desk while finishing up a few files. Twenty minutes later, he switched off the lights, laid out on his berth, and plugged in for recharge.

Just another day.

**Author's Note:**

> (IIRC, in one of the TFA Almanacs, Sentinel referred to Optimus as a "necronomicon xenomorph" or vice versa. Since I'm a HUGE fan of Lovecraft and the Alien franchise, I felt it'd be fun to add in.)


End file.
